


Nobody's Fool (what more can I say)

by lorata



Category: Sk8er Boi - Avril Lavigne (Song)
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Female Friendship, Gen, Healing, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Motherhood, Moving On, POV Female Character, Past Abuse, Unhealthy Relationships, Unplanned Pregnancy, Yuletide 2015, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-09 00:25:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5518556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorata/pseuds/lorata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Be careful with that one, love</i>
  <br/>
  <i>He will do what it takes to survive.”</i>
</p><p>Jessica has worked hard to be where she is, juggling her job and an online degree and taking care of her son, trying to make herself into more than what people told her she was: the Prom Queen, the dancer, the prude, the slut, the ungrateful daughter, the single mom. She thinks that part of her life is over, until one day the boy from high school shows up on the television, and suddenly it's not. </p><p>Then his new girlfriend shows up at Jessi's work after the concert, and Jessica, like it or not, sees more than the dark eyeliner and the scowl and the bad temper: she sees the one who didn't get away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. He was a boy, she was a girl

**Author's Note:**

  * For [innerbrat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/innerbrat/gifts).



> Warnings for emotionally abusive relationships, past and present; for emotionally manipulative behaviour; for borderline/implied/possible physical abuse; for manipulation leading to dubious consent; and for hints of past parental abuse. Nothing is explicit or written for shock value, but proceed with caution.
> 
> I've hated this song since 2002, and the older I get the angrier it makes me. I didn't know how much I needed this prompt until I saw it.
> 
> Thank you to notalwaysweak for the beta!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She tags along, stands in the crowd, looks up at the man that she turned down..._

The baby monitor crackles. She holds her breath, bent over her psychology textbook, waiting for the piercing wail. Four heartbeats, five, but while there’s a rustle that means Nicky has turned over, he stays quiet. No cries, no screams, and Jessica lets out a slow exhale. She flips the highlighter over in her fingers, uses the butt end to rub at the headache between her eyebrows. Tomorrow’s midterm doesn’t care that Nicky has had the flu all week, that he’s been tossing and turning and barely managing to keep down the popsicles she coaxes into him.

Among the things Jessica learned today: the structural maturation of fibre tracts in the pre-adolescent brain, the implications of neuroplasticity on mental development, and that half a box of baking soda sprinkled over vomit dried it out so she could clean it up without gagging.

She leans back in her chair after finishing the chapter, stretching her arms up toward the ceiling and listening to her joints creak in protest. The clock reads eleven p.m.; Jessica promised herself she wouldn’t stay up after two, since after that the lack of sleep would negate all the studying she’d done. Or so said the internet, anyway, and at this point Jessi would take any excuse to catch a few hours of rest without the gnawing guilt that she could be doing something, anything, instead of wasting her time.

(“ _How could you get pregnant, Jessi! How could you throw away your entire life like that! I told you my dancing career was over when I had you. How could you make the same mistake?”_ )

Jessica forces herself out of her chair and into some stretches, bending over double and resting her forehead on her hands, palms flat on the floor. She couldn’t do that when Nicky first was born, and even before, when the curve of her belly grew too large for her to bend like she used to, the first scrabbling of panic had started in her chest. Now it’s better, Nicky sleeps through the night and he’s happy with Mrs. Carlisle in the next apartment over as a sitter when Jessica has to go to work, and she’s slowly getting control over her body back.

She’s lowering herself into a split when the monitor crackles again, and this time Nicky’s voice filters through, scratchy and tinny over the connection. “Mama?”

“Coming, baby,” Jessica calls out, and picks herself up and slips into the next room. Nicky is awake and standing, chubby fists gripping the rails of his crib. His face is pale in the darkness, his eyes wide, dark circles. “Aw, honey, are you feeling bad?” Jessica asks. She picks him up, and at two and a half he’s getting heavy but she cradles him against her neck anyway, rocking side to side as she stands.

“No sleep,” Nicky says, and it could be a complaint or a protest. He buries his face in her shoulder, one hand curled at the side of her neck.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Jessica says softly. She strokes a hand over his curls and hums a lullaby, guiding his hand to her throat so he can feel the vibrations. When he was younger it was the only thing that calmed him when he fussed. “You’ll be better soon. Do you want to come sleep in Mama’s bed while I study?”

Nicky shakes his head. “Mama dance?” he asked instead. He raised his head, looking up at her with his eyebrows furrowed. “Mama dance please?”

Pain spikes in the centre of Jessica’s chest as it always does whenever Nicky asked that question, whenever she thinks about the life she’d thought she’d have, years ago. It fades quickly, like stubbing her toe against the wall when trying to navigate the apartment at night, and Jessica smiles and strokes a finger down his cheek. “Of course, baby.”

She sets him back down in the crib, and Nicky rolls onto his side so he can watch her through the bars. Jessica steps back, balances herself on the edge of the dresser, then points her feet outward and curves her hands at her waist. First position, then legs and arms out into second; heels together, raise the arm into third. She moves through the basics and then into the demi-plié, all the way through. Nicky watches her, intent, and somewhere Jessica started humming a song she no longer remembers.

She hums and the music fills her head, and she moves through positions and basic moves in the tiny child’s bedroom, remembering floor to ceiling mirrored walls and skin-tight leotards and wrapping the ribbon around her ankles. Remembering the cramping feet and aching toes, the muscles in her thighs twitching when she tried to sleep after a late-night practice. Flying across the floor, leaping in the air, the moment of brief, terrifying and exhilarating weightlessness before landing in her partner’s arms, his hands strong and firm around her waist.

( _“We’re not supposed to date other dancers. Monsieur said!”_

 _“It’s not dating, it’s just a fling. It’s not anything complicated, right, Jess? Nothing for Monsieur to disapprove of. Come on, all the other dancers say you’re a prude. Do you want to prove them right?”_ )

The memory crashes hard and she stumbles, barking her knee off the edge of the dresser. Jessica bites back a curse and lowers herself back onto flat feet, and across the room Nicky has drifted off again, chewing on his fist. She breathes a sigh of relief, traces two fingers across his forehead to brush back the sweaty strands of hair, and tiptoes back into her room to finish off the next hour of studying.

 

Five years ago, the beer in the cheap plastic cup was warm and definitely watered down, ugh Brian was such a cheapskate. Jessica sipped at it anyway and leaned against the wall, letting her gaze run over the partygoers. Not a bad crowd tonight, for your standard ‘hey my parents are out of town’ kegger, most of the cool kids from school and a few of the ones who weren’t but knew where to get booze or drugs and so made it on the list.

Scott had gone off somewhere, probably to make out with Miranda in a closet and come back later, lipstick on his palm where he’d tried to wipe it off his neck. Whatever. Jessica liked it better when he cheated, anyway; it meant he left her mostly alone. Dating Scott kept her place firmly sealed as queen of the school without Jessica having to make much of an effort, and this way she didn’t have to be the one to sleep with him.

The only good thing about tonight was the music; some of the punk kids with the dyed hair and sharpies colouring their fingernails black and the ever-present smell of weed on their clothes had brought some instruments. They’d spent the first hour squabbling with Taylor over whether or not they could unplug her dad’s sound system to set up their amps and stuff, but now they’d gotten it all ready and, okay, they sounded not bad. Not like MTV good or anything, but definitely good enough for a house full of teenagers drunk out of their minds off of cheap Molson.

Jessica watched them idly. The main singer kept doing this scratchy thing with his voice like he wanted to sound older and smoked twenty packs of cigarettes a day, and Jessica couldn’t decide if she liked it or not. The guitarist, though —

Okay, yeah, he was cute. Really cute, hair long enough to flop into his eyes but not so long that he looked girly, and he managed to work the dark eyeliner and nail polish and the line of piercings along his ears and make them look broody and mysterious and, well, hot. He also played the guitar better than anyone else in the band. Jessica didn’t know too much about punk music, but the way the chords screamed when he trailed his fingers up and down the neck of his guitar sent a shiver through her.

Something about the way his fingers curled around the guitar like a possessive lover, the way he leaned in close so his hair nearly brushed the strings — Jessica swallowed and wiped a hand across her face, suddenly feeling sweaty. Now and then he joined in harmony with the lead singer, and his voice was low and husky and just a little bit raw. A strange warmth started in Jessica’s stomach and spread outward, moving down with a weird tingling that brought the blood to her cheeks in a hot rush.

The song ended, and as the last note hung in the air in a wild twang, he looked up and happened to make eye contact with Jessica. Jessica jumped — he smiled, a slow smirk that took the warmth in her gut and pulled it sharp — she gasped and looked away. She waved at nobody across the room, pretending to see a friend, and fled before she could embarrass herself any further.

She felt his eyes on the back of her head long after she turned the corner. When Scott came back, reeking of perfume and spilled beer, Jessica pulled him close and kissed him hard and messy to chase away the thoughts of guitar-boy’s fingers tracing the pattern of the chords along her spine.

 

Jessica makes it through her midterm and Nicky gets over the flu, and everything settles back to normal. Work during the day, class in the evenings, and home at night with Nicky. It’s not the best for his sleep schedule, since he always insists on staying up until she’s home, but Jessica would rather see him, even fussy and needy because he’s tired, than have him straight to bed as soon as she’s back.

At least she gets one or two days off per week from work. She can’t always swing the weekends, but Nicky is too young to care about that and Mrs. Carlisle likes the company regardless. She usually saves some leftovers from dinner for Jessica when she comes back to pick up Nicky, and some nights Jess stays to eat and chat while Nicky dozes on her lap, but sometimes she’s tired and her brain aches and she just wants to go home. On those nights she eats out of Mrs. Carlisle’s tupperware container and listens to Nicky babble about his day.

Thursday night Jessica’s class is cancelled, and she picks Nicky up in the afternoon and has the rest of the evening to relax. They read stories and play games and watch movies together, and when it’s time to eat Jessica actually cooks. She sits Nicky on the counter and gives him a giant bowl with a handful of dough, and he plays with it and rolls it around and smears himself with flour while Jessica makes the actual pizzas. She lets him place the toppings, which makes for a very lopsided assortment with all the pineapple on one side, the mushrooms in odd clumps and the pepperoni making a happy face, but who cares, it’s just pizza. No one will be winning any points for style.

The girls from work will be out at the bars, probably, taking advantage of the ladies’ night specials. Jessica cuts Nicky’s pizza into small pieces and puts them in a bowl for them, then she joins him on the living room floor and turns on the TV. He likes music videos and concert footage; he might like watching Mama dance in the quiet of their home, but on television he likes the noise and the cacophony of instruments and the ecstatic fans screaming. It’s all about the spectacle with him, and he’s too young to understand the lyrics so Jessi isn’t going to kill herself trying to keep it appropriate.

Better MTV than idiotic children’s shows with the same lines repeated again and again. Nicky squirms in Jessica’s lap and claps at the screen, and his eyes shine with reflections of the coloured lights. Jessica laughs, nods in agreement to Nicky’s endless “Look, Mama, look!” and occasionally reminds him to put the pizza in his mouth rather than waving it around.

When a new act comes onscreen, Jessica is only half paying attention. She’s thinking about her homework, about the doctor’s appointment next week and who she should ask to swap shifts, about whether to tell Nicky to sit back because being too close to the TV will ruin his eyes even though she’s pretty sure that’s nonsense. The music starts and she registers it a little in the back of her mind because it’s catchy, good riffs on the guitar and a steady drumbeat.

And then he sings, and Jessica’s head snaps up because she _knows_ that voice.

“Mama, look!” Nicky says, pointing, and Jessica swallows hard and her heart hammers in her chest and she has to stop herself from grabbing the remote and hitting the power button right there. It would upset Nicky, and she doesn’t want to deal with that, not when she’s just been plunged five years back in time. It feels like the time her brother dared her to jump off the dock at their cottage when the ice still rimmed the water in a thin layer; she’d come up gasping and fighting for breath, and the full impact of it hadn’t hit her until she’d already scrambled out.

It’s him. He’s older and taller and he’s filled out a little, but it’s the same hair flopping in his eyes and the same smirk on his lips and the same hands cupping his guitar like he’s making love to it. He was always talented, even back then, and now there’s a maturity that rounds out his singing. It still sends shivers down Jessica’s spine just like the first time — except not, not really.

“Look, Mama,” Nicky says. He picks up his toy guitar and jams with it, bending his dimpled knees and pulling his face into a scowl to try to match the singer’s punk-rage expression.

The song ends and Jessica hasn’t registered a word of it, though there’s an uneasy feeling sitting at the back of her mind when she tries to recall snatches of lyrics. Then the credits pop up at the bottom of the screen: TRAVIS RAYNE, BITCH YOU’RE TOO LATE.

“Mama?” Nicky says uncertainly. He drops the guitar and toddles over, patting Jessi’s knees and stroking her hands in increasing alarm. “Mama, okay?”

Jessica claps her hands over her face and laughs, the sound high and sliding. By now Nicky is staring at her wide-eyed, and she forces herself to swallow, to breathe, to calm down and remember that she is a mother not a sixteen-year-old girl and all of that is over. “Sorry, baby,” Jessi says. She reaches down and hauls Nicky up into her lap, and he curls himself into a tight ball as she turns off the TV. “Mama just remembered something, that’s all. Do you want to help me with the dishes?”

Helping with the dishes means sitting on the counter with a tub of sudsy water and a handful of plastic picnic dishes to splash around with, and Nicky brightens. “Yeah!” he says, scooting down to the floor. “Mama, let’s go!”

Jessica gives one last look at the television, then shakes herself and follows Nicky into the kitchen.

 

Five years ago, he watched her at school.

Jessica only noticed after the party, and maybe it only started then, who knew, but after that it was hard to shake him. He didn’t eat at the cafeteria at lunch; he ate with his friends, the smokers and the burnouts, under the tree just off school property so they couldn’t technically get in trouble. Jessica definitely did not ever eat there, but there was a bench behind the building, near the small garden the biology class tried growing their samples in, and she used to take her lunch out there sometimes. Some days the cafeteria was too loud, and Scott’s arm around her waist too possessive and entitled, and her friends’ laughter too sharp and mocking.

She noticed him then, sprawled out on the grass, leaning back with a cigarette dangling from his fingers. Jessica didn’t go for guys like that, okay, she went for the clean-cut type with the square jaw and the tight t-shirts like Scott, except Scott was also kind of a jerk and Jessica didn’t want to think about Scott right now. And right now was the boy from the party, dark and scruffy and a little bit unwashed, only when she glanced at him she jolted because he was already looking at her.

Jessica looked down at her lunch, but just like at the party she felt the heat of his gaze on her. Every time she glanced up there he was, watching, his eyes dark and intent and roving, and it sent a thrill through her that she didn’t understand and decided not to analyze too closely. Finally she packed up and headed back inside without eating anything, ducking into an empty classroom to sit on a desk and finish her sandwich without an audience.

Not just at lunch, either. He found her in the hallways, in the library, at study hall. He never spoke to her, never got near enough that anyone else noticed, but whenever Jessica felt that odd prickle at the back of her neck then there he was, that same low smile quirking his lips. Once he winked at her, a full on wink that turned his usual sly grin into something almost playful, and again Jessica’s cheeks burned hot and she buried her face in her book.

His name was Travis. She knew that, like she knew the name of everyone in her grade, only she’d never had a reason to care. Jessica did not write his name in her notebook like a lovestruck preteen, but she did whisper it once in the dark — half terrified, half thrilled, entirely shocked at herself — and the next day she couldn’t bear to look at him at all, convinced that somehow he would know.

After a month or so, she opened her locker and a folded sheet of paper fluttered to the floor.

 

She mentions the show to Candace the next day at work. “Did you see that concert last night? Travis Rayne, sort of punk.” The Travis she knew in high school would have bristled at ‘sort of punk’, but while Jessica wouldn’t call herself an expert, she also thought she remembered him scoffing at MTV as ‘selling out’.

“Are you kidding?” Candace opens her eyes wide. “Isn’t he great? I saw him last year, it was wild. I thought the crowd was going to jump onstage and eat him or something.”

Jessica laughs and picks up another shirt to fold. “Maybe don’t do that.”

Candace waves a hand. “Whatever, don’t judge me. Why, are you going tomorrow?”

This time Jessica stops, the shirt held between her hands, halfway through the second fold. “What?”

“He’s going to be in town tomorrow, a bunch of us have tickets. Did you want to come? I think they’re all sold out, but I’m sure you could find some on Craigslist or something.”

Jessica sets the shirt down on the top of the display and folds it horizontally, not trusting herself to avoid dropping it as her hands tremble. “No, I — I used to know him, that’s all. In high school.”

“What? Get out of town! What was he like?”

She looks down at her task, focusing on the movements. Fold in, flip, fold, fold, flip. “We didn’t really talk much. Not the same crowd, you know how it is. I saw the concert on TV last night, and it was kind of weird.”

Candace makes a noncommittal humming noise of agreement. “You should totally come tonight! I know you don’t have tickets, but even so, the security won’t be that crazy, you could totally slip in with the crowd. Tracy’s done it, you should ask her how.” Jessica gives her a skeptical look, and Candace shoves her shoulder. “You should! You’re always home or working or something else. It would be good to have an evening out.”

“Maybe.” Jessica finishes her pile and heads to the next display over, mind racing.

Candace rallies the other girls and gangs up on Jessica at break, and by the end of the day she agrees just so they’ll stop cajoling her. And so the next night, Jessica leaves Nicky with Mrs. Carlisle, spends an hour agonizing over her wardrobe before giving up and wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt because she’ll never actually fit in anyway, and gets a ride with Candace and the girls to the concert.

Sneaking in is terrifying, with Jessica convinced the entire time that she’s going to get caught, but Tracy helps her sneak behind the barriers and Candace flirts with the young guy in charge of bracelets while Michelle nicks an extra one from the pile, and that’s that. While it’s not the first time she’s done something against the rules ( _“Come on, it’s just sex. Being attracted to each other is natural! Who are they to make rules against what’s natural?_ ”), it’s more people and noise in one place than Jessica has seen in years.

Jessica stands in the crowd and tries her best not to look too out of place, but the good thing is everyone’s thrilled about the music so it’s not hard to avoid being noticed. Nobody pays attention to a twenty-two-year-old with her arms pulled in tight around her, and the music is really not Jessica’s scene but enthusiasm is infectious. By the time the opening bands are done she’s almost into it. They’re not wrong, is the thing; the world is messed up, and people are selfish, and things do need to change. Maybe tearing it all down and starting again isn’t the worst idea.

The music never had a chance to reach her back then; back then it was all about the boy with the guitar and the Sharpied fingernails, and Jessica had been trying so hard to shut out her thoughts about him that she hadn’t had time to let anything in. But here, surrounded by people screaming and shouting, with music that runs goosebumps up her arms and sets her heart pounding, Jessica uncoils a little. She doesn’t jump or dance or anything else, but she stops folding her arms and glancing around like she expects someone to bite her. When they announce the headlining act up next, a girl next to Jessica flashes her an excited grin. For a second they’re just two young women at a punk rock concert, and Jessica forgets herself and cheers along with everyone else.

Then Travis swaggers out onto the stage in tight black jeans and fierce eyeliner, and Jessica sucks in a hard breath. He’s every bit as handsome as she remembers, all of the looks with twice the presence, and the added tattoos and piercings since she last saw him only add to the appeal. He wears his guitar like a gunslinger’s rifle, and he wraps both hands around the microphone and croon-screeches _Is everybody ready?_ and the crowd explodes.

Jessica presses a hand to her chest, digging her fingers in hard to remind herself to breathe. She’s still trying when he steps back, picks up his guitar, and starts to play.

 

“It’s a love song, I think,” Jessica said, five years ago. She and Michelle sprawled on her bed, the letter spread out on the ballet-pink comforter. “I know it’s a little hard to tell because it’s so intense.”

“That’s one word for it,” Michelle said. She flopped on her stomach with her chin resting on her hands and kicked her feet in the air behind her, frowning at the ballpoint scrawl on the lined notebook paper. “It reads a little bit creepy stalker to me. All this stuff about watching you, and pain, and barbed wire, it’s creepy.”

“But that could be sexy, right?” Jessica asked. Michelle raised an eyebrow, and okay, she was still dating Scott, but she and Michelle had known each other since sharing the cool purple and green eraser meant instant best friends. Jessica wasn’t going to lie to her.

Michelle sighed, and she rolled over onto her side and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Look, Jess, I get it, Scott is a dick but it would be worse to dump him right before Prom, but that doesn’t mean you go chasing after weirdos who stuff stalker letters in your locker. Okay? Try to have a little perspective here.” Jessica nodded, reluctant, and Michelle shot her a sharp look. “Do you know who it is?”

“I think so.” Jessica traced her fingers over the letters on the page, imagining him writing it, imagining him bent over his desk late at night, scribbling furiously while angry music blared in his headphones. Or maybe he’d written it at the skate park, balancing the paper against his knee and snatching sentences when his friends weren’t looking. Michelle makes a ‘well?’ gesture, swirling her finger in the air, and Jessica flushes. “Do you know Travis? He played at Brian’s party.”

Michelle thinks for a second, then gawks at Jessica and sits up. “Wait, the skater boy? Seriously? The kid who smokes at break and does all those stupid tricks off the back steps on his board with all his stoner friends? Jess, you’ve got to be kidding.”

Jessica bristled, and she snatched up the paper and folded it before hiding it in the drawer of her bedside table. “I didn’t say I was going to date him, okay, I just thought — well, he’s cute, isn’t he? And he plays guitar and writes love songs. I don’t think Scott could write a love haiku.”

“What do you want, a love haiku or a boyfriend who’s hot and popular and will get you crowned Prom Queen?” Michelle asked. “Look, okay, he’s cute. Okay, he’s a bad boy and he writes creepy love songs and he plays guitar. But do you really think he’d be a good boyfriend?”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Jessica folded her arms, hating herself for the part of her that wanted Michelle to be right. To talk her out of it, give her a reason not to take the chance.

“Has he ever talked to you?” Michelle asked. Jessica shook her head. “Yeah, I didn’t think so. Does he know anything about you at all, like, you really? Or is it just that you’re hot and popular? Because if that’s all it is, good job having eyes. All the weird intense love letters won’t change the fact that he doesn’t know who you are, and anyone who gets that obsessed without knowing you is not going to make for a good boyfriend.”

Jessica chewed on her lower lip. “He might? If he likes me this much just watching me, then if he got to know me —”

“Then he’d only be disappointed when you’re a real person and not some weird fantasy inside his head,” Michelle said ruthlessly. “It happens all the time, Jess. Guys like that want a perfect imaginary girlfriend and they freak out when the girl they want isn’t real. To him you’re not a person, you’re a status symbol. You’re something he can’t have, and that’s why he wants you.”

Half a dozen arguments came to mind but sank back down before Jessica could voice them. She pulled up her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, leaning back against the headboard. “It’s not like Scott really loves me, though.”

“Maybe not,” Michelle said, but she moved over and slid an arm around Jessica’s shoulders. “But he’s popular, and so are you. If you date some skater kid who only gets invited to parties because he plays guitar, you’ll get nothing. He’s baggy clothes and a skateboard and social suicide. Do you really want to throw away everything you have because you’re bored and curious?”

Jessica couldn’t help looking at the dresser, the note hidden inside, but she sighed and turned away, leaning her head on Michelle’s shoulder. “Why are you so logical? Couldn’t you support me through my bad boy phase?”

Michelle snorted and stroked a hand over Jessica’s hair. “Jess, I love you too much for that. High school can be hell and I’m not letting my best friend go through it for some boy, okay? But I will use my dad’s card to order us some pizza, and I’ll offer the driver twenty bucks if he’ll pick up a tub of ice cream on the way.”

She swore for a moment she felt the boy’s eyes on her, burning and disappointed, but she chased the sensation away. “Sounds good.”

 

It’s actually okay, once he starts singing. The shock of seeing him there on stage fades, the pounding in her heart settles to match the beat, and Jessica remembers how to breathe. The songs themselves are angry, hard slamming chords on the bass, the guitar wailing and screeching as Travis chases his fingers up the neck, all the lyrics about being young and angry and showing the haters where they can stick it.

Travis is well out of high school now, with his own band and a show that plays concerts and actually makes it on MTV; Jessica can’t help wonder what he possibly has to be angry at. She’s not proud of herself for the thought, or how it curls deep inside her and prickles outward, as ridiculous and effective as a hedgehog in her stomach.

Jessica has tried being angry before, and it’s not like she has no reason to be, but she never found it sustained her very long. It felt good for an hour, maybe, but never any longer than that, and afterward she’d plummet right back to sad with an extra layer of guilt and exhaustion. She may as well have slammed her head into the wall over and over again with the argument that it stopped her thinking about a sore foot, and so she left it behind.

She exhales and lets the music and the cheering carry away the sound of her sigh. Travis looks good, handsome and well-fed and less strung out than he was in high school, and with any luck he won’t turn up on the news face-down in some crummy motel with his stomach full of pills and track marks up his arm at the age of 27, like Jess sees online so often nowadays. He’s got a good thing going for him now, at any rate, and in all likelihood he hasn’t thought about Jessica since graduation.

Near the end of the show, he stops to chug a bottle of water, crumples it up and chucks it into the crowd. “This last song is an extra-special one,” Travis says. His hair is soaked with sweat, sticking to his forehead, and he tosses it out of his eyes with a flick of his head. “So to help me, I’m gonna ask someone special to come out here and sing it with me. Everyone, this is Harley, and she helped me write this song.”

She’s pretty, the girl who comes onstage in ripped jeans, wife-beater and a men’s necktie, even with the way-too-thick smoky eye makeup that from here makes it look a little bit like she has twin black eyes. She grabs a microphone from the bassist and flashes a toothy grin at the audience; Travis hooks an arm around her waist, fingers digging into her hip, and Jessica flinches but the girl only smiles wider.

They raise their mics and square off, feet planted widely as the drummer kicks off with a raucous beat. Their voices actually sound pretty good together, her husky rasp complementing Travis’ raw, screaming whine, but the sound of it flies past Jessica because this time it’s the words that grab her.

They’re singing about her. In the song Travis is a punk kid turned down by the school princess, a stuck-up bitch who couldn’t see what was in front of her; the song theorizes that she’ll be a knocked-up nobody one day, so to all the punks in high school turned down by the Prom Queen, just hold tight. The universe knows what’s up, and everyone gets what they deserve in the end.

Jessica actually stumbles — the guy next to her catches her, steadies her and even gives her a brief, encouraging smile before Jess waves him off — and just like that, the memories hit.

 

Five years ago Travis caught Jessica by the lockers. He leaned his whole side against hers, blocking her from getting to the combination lock, and gave her a low, sliding grin that despite Michelle’s warnings still made Jessica’s stomach flutter. “Hey,” he said. “I see you watching me.”

His tone got under her skin a little, like noticing her noticing him meant she owed him something. “It’s a free country,” Jessica snapped. It came out defensive and probably a little snotty, but too late now.

“Sure is,” Travis said, and raised his eyebrows like he just won a point. Jessica pressed her lips together to stop the annoyed sigh; why did boys turn every conversation into a competition? “So, free country, you wanna go out with me?”

Jessica’s stupid stomach did that stupid flip again, but she imagined Michelle’s face in the back of her mind. “I’m seeing somebody, but thanks,” she reminded him. She reached past him for the lock he blocked with his arm, hoping he took the hint.

Travis’ cocky expression slid into a scowl, and he still didn’t move out of the way. “What, Chad?”

“His name is Scott,” Jessica said, a little icily this time.

He dismissed the correction with a gesture. “He looks like a Chad. Anyway, it doesn’t matter because he’s an asshole, everybody knows it. You’re a nice girl, why are you even with him?”

For a hundred reasons and maybe none very good — _because he’s cute and popular, because my parents like him and don’t ask questions, because he doesn’t pressure me to have sex if he can cheat on me with someone else_ — but Jessica bridled at the question. Michelle told her once that guys tried to turn any ‘no’ into a negotiation, so don’t give them the opening.

“It doesn’t matter,” Jessica said, opting for a more neutral version of ‘none of your business’. “I’ve got a boyfriend, but thanks anyway. And now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get to my locker.”

Travis stared at her for several seconds, eyebrows pulled together, before moving away from her locker — not backward, giving Jessica room, but forward, into her space, so she had to take a quick step behind or he would have been right in her face. “You know what, whatever,” he snapped. The last of the flirtatious lilt disappeared from his voice, nothing left but a harsh growl, and he grabbed her arm and twisted hard. Jessica froze as his fingers dug into her bicep. “I would have been an awesome boyfriend, okay, I would be the best boyfriend, I’d treat you and let you come to all my shows and all that. And you know what, one day your stupid asshole boyfriend is going to hit you or knock you up or break your heart, and you’re going to wonder where all the nice guys are. Well guess what, they’re going to be with a girl who appreciates them and you’re going to be alone and sad and it’ll be too late.”

Jessica’s heart hammered in her throat. Her eyes had widened, and her breaths came short and ragged and every part of her screamed at her to run away but nothing else moved. “Travis,” she said, forcing her mouth to work even if everything else had gone on lockdown. “Let go and get out of my way. I need to get to my locker before the bell rings.”

Travis tightened his grip for a second — Jessica refused to react, biting the inside of her cheek to stop herself from crying out — then dropped his hand and stepped back. “Fine,” he said, and threw up a hand. “Fine, whatever. You’re a bitch and I don’t need you.”

The bell rang and Jessica hadn’t moved from her locker — still hadn’t even opened it. She stayed there, shaking and furious, until a passing teacher stopped to ask if anything was wrong. Jessica opened her mouth to say everything was fine — nearly burst into tears instead — and finally, with a calmness that surprised her, said, “I’m not feeling great. I think I need to go home.”

 

The song ends as the final chord hangs in the air and the crowd applauds. Onstage Travis slides his guitar around behind him, grabs his girlfriend and pulls her in for an elaborate, showy kiss. The fans cheer, his bandmates roll their eyes — the drummer threatens to chuck a drumstick in their direction — and Jessica unfreezes as a laugh tears itself loose. It’s wild and high and hysterical, and after the first few people in the crowd turn to stare at her, Jessica claps both hands over her mouth and swallows the rest of it.

Travis grabs for the mic and the spell breaks. Jessica snaps free and pushes her way back through the crowd, elbowing and shouldering anyone who doesn’t move fast enough. The guy at the door tells her she can’t come back in if she leaves, probably a legal disclaimer so they can say they did their utmost to curb on-site drug use, but Jessica only barks out another laugh.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’m out of here.”

Jessica makes it halfway home before remembering she ditched the girls, and she dashes off a quick apology text about feeling under the weather while the subway picks up passengers at a station. She sits with her forehead resting against the window, closes her eyes and lets the anger wash over her as the train rattles around her.

Mrs. Carlisle has put Nicky to bed by the time Jessica makes it back. He’s sprawled out on his back like a starfish, one hand clutching the leg of his toy octopus, and for a minute Jessica stands by the bed and watches him sleep. The orange-gold glow from the nightlight paints him like a distant sunrise, and Jessica sits gently on the edge of the bed and brushes her hand over his forehead.

“Hey, little man,” Jessica says softly. Nicky stirs and chews on the inside of his lip like he’s searching for an imaginary soother, then settles back down. The lyrics to the song — incredibly catchy, for a punk song, isn’t that disdained as a pop thing, shouldn’t he be ashamed or something — stick in her head, rolling over and over as Travis and his girlfriend and an entire stadium of people and thousands of fans at home sang about Jessica’s son as a living punishment for her stuck-up whore ways.

It’s the same thing Mom said when Jessica decided to keep the baby instead of terminating, when she dropped out of dance and enrolled in school instead. It’s what her friends didn’t have to say when Jessica kept turning down offers and cancelling plans, when they all said “let us know if you need any help” but never followed through or made an offer when Jessica, too exhausted to know what she needed, sat alone in her apartment and cried right along with Nicky. It’s what Jessica thought to herself some nights, many nights, when she tried to study for a midterm with Nicky wailing in the crook of one arm, steadying the bottle with her chin and turning the pages and making notes with her other hand.

Jessica isn’t the perfect mother and Nicky isn’t the perfect son, but as she sits on the bed and watches him sleep, as she looks around at the scribbled drawings taped to the walls and the stuffed animals still scattered from the massive battle that would be continued in the morning —

As she thinks about Travis, sneering on stage and slamming his hand against the lockers and grabbing his arm and kissing his girlfriend, a man in his twenties still hung up on a girl he never dated five years ago — writing a nasty song that turns the most important thing in Jessica’s life into a punchline —

Jessica leans down and kisses Nicky on the forehead. “I love you, little man,” she says, fierce and proud and angry, and she glares out the window as though Travis were there to see it. A thousand nights of lost sleep, of headaches and red eyes and googling “two-year-old runny nose and cough” in a middle of the night panic, of bleary mornings and stifling yawns behind the counter — all of that is nothing next to Nicky and all the ways he surprises her every day. She’d rather all of this, the mess and tears and hugs and joy, than being a trophy girlfriend for Travis to grope on stage.

Let Travis have his song, Jessica decides. Let anyone from high school who hears it on the radio wonder if they know who it’s about; none of that matters. She didn’t let Travis make her decisions for her in high school, and she won’t let him shame her now.

She feels a brief flash of self-righteous pity for the girl, but no, no. She won’t fall into the same trap of mocking someone else’s choices just because she disagrees. Just like the anger, all that would do is suck up her energy and spit her out with nothing back. Jessica exhales, then stands up and heads to bed.


	2. We are in love, haven't you heard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _We'll be at the studio, singing the song we wrote, about the girl you used to know_
> 
> After the concert, Jessica thinks she's put it all behind her. Travis' girlfriend has other ideas.

Half a year goes by. Nicky turns three, and the girls from work go in on one of those battery-powered cars shaped like the space shuttle; he spends the next few weeks roving around the apartment making what Jessica assumes are spaceship noises, and turns under the kitchen table into mission command. It means they watch nothing on television but documentaries on NASA, but Jessica doesn’t really mind. It’s educational and it’s fun, and who wouldn’t want to go to space and see the entire earth floating below, anyway.

One afternoon, Jessica is at work when she hears one of the girls spluttering at a customer. It’s been a long day, one of the flyers last week printed with an erroneous coupon and they’ve all been dealing with the fallout despite the plethora of signs and emails and everything else, but Jessica puts on her manager’s smile and heads out onto the floor.

It’s poor Tracy dealing with the irate customer, following beside her as she strides across the room, and Jessica meant to walk out to meet them but instead she stops, rooted to the floor as her brain clicks with recognition. It makes no sense, there’s absolutely no reason for this to be happening, but it’s the girl from the concert — the one on stage, the one all slinked up against Travis’ side with his hand at her hip — marching down the aisle with her eyes fixed on Jessica.

Jessica shakes herself free and stands with her hands open, inviting but not placating just yet. “Hi there, is there something I can do for you?”

“Are you her?” the woman spits out, but Jessica has enough experience dealing with vitriol that she doesn’t react. “Are you the bitch he’s obsessed with?”

Jessica looks to Tracy and gives her a tight smile. “Tracy, I’m going to take my break. I’ll be back in 15, call me if you need me.” She turns back to the girl and waves a hand toward the front of the store. “Take a walk with me?”

She narrows her eyes, thick-lined with black and smoky shadows, but then she turns and storms off. Jessica shrugs at Tracy and follows out past the exit into the rest of the mall. They stop across from the place that does eyebrow threading, and Jessica takes a deep breath and checks her work smile. “Is there a problem?” she asks. Her brain rustles around inside her head for the name, and finally Jessica finds it — Harvey, no, Harley.

Harley crosses her arms. “It is you. You know, you’re not so great. You’re not even that hot. There’s no reason to be hung up on you five years later.”

Jessica clasps one hand over the opposite wrist to stop herself from pinching her nose or possibly something more violent. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about,” she says, still calm.

“You’re Jess Madison,” Harley says. The name sounds like a curse in her mouth, and Jessica feels the muscles around her eyes tighten. “I looked you up on Facebook and I found your work through your LinkedIn. Travis had a thing for you in high school, and you were too much of a stuck-up bitch to realize how awesome he was. And now, by the way, he’s got his own band and he plays shows all over the country, which is way better than working at some stupid clothing store.”

She hadn’t noticed onstage, with the lights and the smoke and the ringing music, but here in the mall, standing in front of each other, Jessica would bet that Harley is a few years younger. It could just be the cadence or the force of her rage that makes her come off that way, the way she glares with no care as to who might see her or notice the display, but Jessi would almost take odds on it.

“I remember a Travis from high school,” Jessica says, choosing her words carefully. Stay neutral, try not to give any openings for attack. “He had a band, right? I’m glad he’s doing well, I’ve heard the music business is tough to get into.”

“He’s with me now,” the girl says. Harley straightens up when she says it, sticking out her chin, and all right, maybe it’s ridiculous, maybe Jessi is losing her mind after looking over the sales numbers too many times, but a stab of sympathy runs through her. Not that makes any sense, and Jessica is prepared to blame mother hormones but for a second all she wants to do is buy Harley a sandwich and give her a warmer sweater. Anything artistically slashed and held together with safety pins can’t actually be that warm. “And we’re very happy.”

“I’m glad,” Jessica says. Hopefully she sounds more sincere than baffled. Harley keeps staring at her, not a crack in her glare, and Jessica finally gives up. “Is there something wrong?”

It must not be punk to hide your feelings, because half a dozen flash across Harley’s face — defensiveness, anger, guilt, hesitation — as her eyes flicker, but finally she huffs a breath through her nose and plants her feet. “He doesn’t stop talking about you. Ever. I thought — he told me it just makes him appreciate me more, but it’s like he can’t get over it. We wrote a song about it together, and that was fun, but it now he sings it on the tour, and it’s going on the next album and —” She stops, snapping her mouth closed, and takes a step forward toward Jessica like she’s going to shove her before glancing over at the security guard patrolling the mall. “I just wanted to see you for myself, figure out what’s so great.”

Jessica pinches the bridge of her nose, before she catches the almost desperate wideness around Harley’s eyes. This time the sympathy hits again harder and lingers longer, and Jessica says the words before her brain catches up. “I get off work at 8. If you come by after my shift, we can go out for coffee or something.”

Harley jerks back. “Why?”

Why indeed. The last thing Jessica wants after a long day is to spend time with a girl hell-bent on spitting in her face, but apparently she’s lost her mind and may as well own it. “Because it looks like you need someone to talk to,” Jessica says, less resignation in her voice than she’d thought there might be. “And… I know what that feels like.”

The pause stretches on past several heartbeats, but finally Harley swallows and draws her arms in tighter across her chest. “Fine,” she says. “But nowhere that serves skinny lattes or any of that white girl shit.”

Thankful for the retail experience that lets her keep her expression pleasant, Jessica only nods. “You can choose the place. Meet me outside the north entrance around 8:15.”

Harley gives her one last suspicious look, then jerks her head in a nod and walks away with a round-shouldered slouch that makes Jessica wince, remembering her mother and the sharp-knuckled jabs her posture used to earn her. Jessica watches for a moment to make sure she’s not going to double back and cause any more grief, then shakes her head and slips back into the store.

 

“So,” Jessica says. They’re at a pub, no lattes in sight as promised, though Jessi earned herself a scornful lip curl from Harley for only ordering a glass of seltzer water with a shot of grenadine. Harley ordered something with “dirty” in the name that Jessica will bet tastes foul for the sake of it, and Jessi prudently didn’t comment. “Tell me about you and Travis.”

Harley stares down at her drink for a few seconds, gnawing on the inside of her cheek. For a moment her expression clears, her eyes going faraway, and without the scowl she almost looks pleasant, like a girl of twenty and not and a giant walking ball of rage shaped like a person. “I met him at a concert, a couple of years ago before he made it big, so it’s not like I’m a poseur or anything. I’ve been with him since the beginning. He was mostly playing garages and warehouse parties, maybe a shitty club if he got lucky. And we just — connected.”

She catches Jessi’s gaze and draws back, eyebrows coming together in a defensive glare that Jessica makes sure not to react to. “He’s really talented, okay, and he’s got a great soul. People like you never look for that sort of thing, it’s just is he hot or does he drive the right car or whatever else. I knew girls like you in high school. You’d make my life hell and never look twice at someone like Travis.”

Jessica isn’t going to argue. She never tormented anyone on purpose — or, at least, she thinks she didn’t; heaven knows Mom never thinks she’s saying anything that hurts and would scream if told otherwise — but she didn’t exactly tell her friends to stop when they did, either. If the last few years have taught Jessica anything, it’s that intention doesn’t mean anything when the outcome is the same. “There are lots of reasons why people were idiots in high school,” Jessica says. It’s sort of a copout answer, and the tight lines of Harley’s face say that she agrees, but it isn’t as though Jessica can apologize for the way people treated Harley in high school and have it mean anything.

Still, the memory of Travis gripping her arm sticks in her mind; Jessica felt the pressure of his fingers long after the bruises faded from her skin, and she pushes back a shudder. “Did — Travis, is he good to you?”

“Yes,” Harley says immediately. If Jessica were playing armchair shrink she’d say it happened too fast, but she’s still a student and her major is child psychology, not angry post-adolescent punk. “He is, it’s great, we’re great. Everything is great, except _you_.”

Jessica takes another sip of her drink, enjoying the almost cloying sweetness. She imagines giving Nicky a sip, the way his eyes would bug out wide before he demanded more and pouted when she said no. “I don’t know what to say about that,” she says finally, carefully. “It’s — we weren’t together, we were never together. He asked me out, I said no, he got angry, we never talked to each other again. He probably told you that much.” Harley nods, eyebrows still furrowed. “That’s all there is.”

“Five years,” Harley says in a flat voice. “Five years and he still talks about you. He wrote that song, and he likes to play this game where we guess where you are and what you’re doing — he looks at your Facebook profile even though he won’t add you, and he said he stopped but I borrowed his phone and you were in the recent searches, _again,_ and —“ She grips the edge of the table hard enough that her fingers mottle pink and white. “You’re not that pretty. You look like every other rich bitch whose daddy bought her a convertible, and he didn’t even date you! So why?”

A flash of anger hits Jessica hard at the mention of her imaginary father, but no, no she won’t get into that. It’s not anyone’s business but hers, and Jessi certainly spent enough time as a teenager cultivating that sort of image anyway. Not too many people knew the truth, and she liked it that way. Jessica taps one finger against the tabletop. “Maybe because he never dated me?” Jessica suggests. It’s a safe enough guess, at least. “If we’d dated and broken up, there’d be nothing left to wonder about. But we didn’t, and I hurt his feelings, so —” She waves her hand. “Hard to get over something if you don’t have closure.”

Harley’s lips press thin, and she leans back in the booth and curls in, shoulders hunching forward. Jessica could leave it at that, she’s indulged this girl’s curiosity and given her a glimpse into her personal life that she definitely did not have to do, but something pulls her back. It’s not vulnerability, exactly, not with the makeup splashed like war paint across her face and the scowl like a mask, but maybe it is. Maybe it’s the jut of Harley’s collarbones above her shirt, or the way the edges of her nail polish have peeled away along with the skin from too much picking. Maybe it’s none of those things, and Jessi is an idiot.

Jessica picks up her drink to give herself something to do with her hands, and she looks away out at the rest of the patrons to avoid getting too intense with her eye contact. “I’m sorry I’ve made things a problem for you,” she says. “But… it sounds like you could do better than a boyfriend who talks about another girl all the time.”

Harley hisses. “You don’t know anything,” she snaps. “The problem isn’t Travis, it’s you! All I have to do is go home and tell him you work at some shitty department store folding shitty clothes and he’ll forget all about you and come back to me. He thinks you’re so great, but you’ve got a lame, shitty life and I’m going to tell him that.”

Jessica stands up so fast she barks her knee off the underside of the table, though it’s too heavy to go skittering. Her heart hammers, pulse pounding in her chest and in her temple, and Harley stares up at her, eyes wide. “You can tell him,” Jessica says slowly, feeling the rage roll over her like the surf at her feet, “whatever you want, if it will make you feel better. If you really want to him to have a laugh and get over me, you can even tell him that I have a baby, and oh look, no ring.” She waves her hand for Harley to see, though it ends up curled into a fist without her meaning to. “Tell him I haven’t spoken to my mother in years because she’s furious I didn’t have an abortion. Tell him whatever, I don’t care. But I’m going to tell you something, too. You need to grow up and realize you’re dating somebody who treats you like garbage. The problem isn’t that he’s obsessed with me and needs to know I’m not worth his nostalgia. The problem is he’s obsessed with anyone who isn’t his girlfriend, and that’s not going to stop with me. And if you’re okay with that, then fine, but it’s not my problem and I’m not going to be a punching bag so you can feel better about your relationship. Okay? Okay.”

It’s the most Jessica has said in one go in a long time, and the first time in years she actually let the anger take her. She doesn’t wait for Harley’s response, doesn’t wait for whatever expression will cross her face once the shock fades; instead Jessica grabs her jacket from the hanger at the side of the booth and heads out without looking back.

 

“Mama looks angry,” Nicky says to her the next morning, when they’re cuddling on the couch watching morning television. Jessica looks down at him, surprised, and he pokes her between the eyes, then once in each eyebrow. “Caterpillar!”

Jessica laughs; her brows are almost touching, and now that Nicky pointed it out, her jaw does ache from clenching. “Mama had a long day yesterday,” she says, bending to kiss his hair. “I’m okay now. I like it here with you.”

“Hm,” Nicky says, frowning, then he squirms and slides off the couch onto the floor. “Doctor Nicky will help Mama feel better.”

Well, she certainly isn’t going to argue with that. Jessica tucks her feet up underneath her as Nicky roots in his toy box for his doctor kit, and she dutifully rolls up her sleeve when he comes back with a large, multicoloured toy syringe. Doctor Nicky’s diagnosis involves a prescription of cookies and watching nature documentaries — Jessica likes the ones on the ocean, there’s a certain calmness when the camera swoops underwater and the sounds muffle — and so she scoops him up and carries him to the kitchen to make good on the first part.

“Doctor needs cookies too,” Nicky says, very seriously, and Jessica laughs.

“Of course he does,” Jessi says, booping him on the nose. “Thank you for being such a good doctor.”

 

A week or so later, Jessi heads out the side exit from the mall and nearly runs right into Harley. She’s leaning against the side of the building, the same safety-pinned sweater and makeup and crossed arms, and Jessica exhales through her teeth. “I don’t have time for this,” she says. “I have to get home.”

Harley doesn’t move, doesn’t look at her, and Jessica is about to continue past her to the bus stop when she speaks. “I didn’t tell him,” she says. The words come out in a rush, and Jessi folds her arms. “I — was going to, but I thought he would laugh. It’s part of the song, you getting knocked up, and I know he’d find it hilarious. I was going to tell him.” Her fingers tighten on her arms, wrinkling the fabric of her sweater. “But then I didn’t.”

Jessica waits for more, but that’s apparently it. “Well, thank you,” she says dryly. “I appreciate it, really. But I have to get home.”

She goes to move past, but Harley catches her arm. Jessica jerks away, too many memories of unwanted touches blaring through her mind, and Harley doesn’t try to grab her again. “What did you mean, he’s treating me like garbage?”

Oh, boy. Jessica didn’t ask for this. All she wanted was to go to work and come home to Nicky and not worry about babysitting the girlfriend of a guy who used to watch her at high school and then wrote a nasty song because she wouldn’t go out with him. Jessica opens her mouth to tell Harley to go to hell, she doesn’t owe her anything, but apparently it’s a sickness or something because instead she says, “I’m supposed to get Nicky in half an hour, and I can’t stay late today because my sitter has plans. If you want to talk you’ll have to come with me.”

Harley’s eyes flicker. They’re rimmed with deep purple this time, and she bites her lip. “This isn’t some weird plan to stab me and serve me as soup at your next housewife party, is it?”

Jessica mentally whispers a prayer for patience. “No,” she says. “My bus is leaving in five minutes, and then I’ll have to wait an extra half an hour or call a cab. Come if you’re coming.”

She heads for the bus stop, and after a moment Harley’s footsteps follow her, scuffing against the concrete. Jessica doesn’t offer to start the conversation; not while she’s still in her work clothes, agitated and eager to be home and kick off her shoes and scoop up Nicky for a kiss. She’s agreed to talk to Harley in what is likely to be a very infuriating conversation, but she won’t do it while waiting for the bus. It probably won’t make a difference, but Jessica wants Harley to see her life, see what she’s built for herself. The furious outburst from the week before, framing it in a way that might make Travis get over his ridiculous ancient crush, that isn’t how Jessi lives.

It’s not that she needs a random girl’s approval, but Jessica would rather not have her scorn or condemnation, either. at least not without seeing the full picture.

They don’t talk on the bus, either, and Harley is content not to make small-talk. She follows when Jessica exits the bus and takes the side street to her apartment, and she’ll have to be sizing up the place, making judgments in her head, but Jessica can’t let that paralyze her. She’s lived this long, brushing off people’s snap assessments of her; she might be inviting this one in, but that doesn’t mean she has to be a slave to the results.

Nicky runs to the door when Jessica opens it, as always, hitting her hard at the knees and wrapping his arms around her calves. “Oof!” Jessica says, laughing, and she reaches down to ruffle his hair. “Mama needs to get inside, peanut, how about you let me in?”

Nicky peers around her legs and catches sight of Harley, and he backs up a few steps to give them space. “Mama, who that?”

“You go say goodbye to Mrs. Carlisle while Mama gets her coat off,” Jessica says. “We’ll talk in a minute.”

She turns to Harley, who’s eyeing the place with the same wide-eyed stare she gave Jessica when she snapped at her. Maybe it’s the stink of suburbia and motherhood that hangs on the apartment, Jessica thinks uncharitably, even though she lives downtown. Maybe it’s the drawings along the bottom three feet of the walls; she lines them with mural paper and lets Nicky draw on them, replacing with a new fresh sheet once one gets filled.

“You can leave your boots there,” Jessica says. She kicks off her own, lining them up on the mat with enough room for Harley’s toe-stompers, and hangs up her coat in the closet. Harley keeps her sweater, and she hangs awkwardly by the door while Jessica says goodbye to Mrs. Carlisle.

“Your house makes me feel like you’re going to offer me cookies or something and creep me out,” Harley says after Mrs. Carlisle leaves. She keeps eyeing the walls as though a fifties-print dress is going to materialize and try to force her to wear it.

“I did make cookies last week,” Jessica says mildly, enjoying Harley’s grimace maybe a little too much. “But I won’t offer you any if that would freak you out.” Harley sputters a little and Jessica ignores her, still pleased with herself even if that’s not exactly nice.

Nicky toddles back over to them, each footfall landing with a child’s determination until he stands in front of them. “Mama, who that?” he asks again, and this time he won’t be swayed. “I like your makeup! Sometimes, sometimes me and Mama play Beauty Parlour. I make Mama’s makeup. Can I do makeup?”

Harley slinks back out of reach as though faced with a rabid dog, and Jessica takes pity. “This is Harley,” she says, and doesn’t add a pleasant lie like ‘Mama’s friend’ that might seem to explain the situation but really would launch a whole bevy of toddler questions. “She’s not here to play, though, she’s here to talk with Mama. Can you play by yourself for a while?”

“Aw,” Nicky says, pulling a pout, but it’s all for show. He takes a few of his toys and disappears into his room, and Jessica will keep an ear out for trouble but he’s always happy to have quiet time on his own.

Jessica takes the end of the couch where she can still see into Nicky’s room, and waves Harley down onto the other. The dull ache at her temples suggests her post-work coffee is overdue, but Jessi has been trying to wean herself off, and she doesn’t really want to launch into hostess mode. It doesn’t come naturally to her, no matter what Harley thinks, and the whole point of this conversation is to be honest, right?

Judging by their conversation at the pub, Harley isn’t going to be the one to start, and so Jessica tucks her feet under her and curls one hand around her ankle. “Is Travis your first boyfriend?” she asks. May as well start right out of the gate.

“No!” Harley says. “No, I dated in high school, thanks, I wasn’t a loser. And I had girlfriends, too.” She says that with a certain pointed accusation, as though the idea of two girls together is a javelin that, once hurled, will stab Jessica through the heart and kill her.

Jessica decides not to react to that one. She’s had a few thoughts about that herself, over the years, but she only ever dated Scott through high school and it seems a bit of a cliche to get turned off men after a few bad experiences — or something. She’s not really sure, but this is not a conversation she’s going to have with Harley, anyway.

Times like this she misses Michelle and her startling frankness, but those days are long behind her.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Jessica says, and that plus her lack of visible reaction smoothes some of Harley’s ruffled feathers. “I only asked because first relationships can be — intense.”

“It’s intense because it’s real,” Harley says, but Jessica recognizes an automatic justification when she hears one. “I’ve never met anyone like him.”

“You never have,” Jessica says. “Not _you_ -you, general people you.” She reaches up and pulls the hair tie from her braid, untwisting the strands and combing her fingers through. Harley watches her, still angled away with her posture ratcheted tight, and Jessica can’t exactly blame her. The last time they spoke Jessica shouted at her and stormed out; based on Harley’s levels of apparent paranoia, it’s likely she’s expecting Jessi to have brought her home to chop her up and hide her in the walls. “I mean, it always feels like that. It’s not always a good thing, that’s all.”

“He doesn’t hit me or anything.” Harley goes to cross her arms, then stops herself and fists her hands on her knees instead. “It’s — this is stupid. I don’t even know why I’m here.”

“I never said he hit you,” Jessica says gently. “But I also know that if the first thing that comes to mind is ‘he doesn’t hit me’, then that’s not usually a good sign.”

Harley swallows, and she pulls her knees up to her chest. “It is good, okay, it’s great. I just — he’s always comparing me to you. And it’s good, because he keeps telling me I’m better than you, I’m hotter and I’m smarter and I understand music and all this stuff, and I liked it. But I — I started wondering if he just says it because you wouldn’t fuck him and I did.” Her face hardens, the line of her jaw standing out as she grits her teeth. “I want him to stop telling me how much better I am than you and just tell me how much he likes _me_.”

Self-realization is a tricky path, and one easily derailed by too-eager advice. Instead of offering her immediate perspective, Jessica waits while Harley sits, quietly seething, and watches the thoughts run behind her eyes.

“He does make me feel good,” Harley says. She pushes a hand through her hair, tugging at the ends. “But it’s not about me. I mean, he’s talking to me, but it’s not _about_ me. It could be about anyone who’s not you.” She catches herself playing with her hair and drops her hand, giving Jessi a glare. “This is your fault. You got in my head, made me think all of this.”

Catalysts don’t start fires unless there’s something to burn, but Jessica isn’t going to say that. “You should talk to him,” she says instead. “There’s only so much you can fix on a stranger’s couch, and you are right. Too much thinking can make you crazy, especially by yourself. Do you have any girlfriends you can talk to?”

She thinks she knows the answer to that one, and sure enough Harley shakes her head. “Not really. I’ve always gotten along better with guys than girls. I guess I’m just not into drama.”

“It’s not a bad idea to have some,” Jessica says. “If you only hang out with him and his friends, you’re only going to hear what they think. That might not be helpful.”

“He likes that I don’t have friends of my own,” Harley says slowly, and she might have shown up and insulted Jessica to her face, and Jessi might have absolutely no obligation to help her, but that sends a chill through her blood. “He says it’s cool that I like hanging out with him and the band and don’t care about shopping or chick flicks or whatever, and that girl friends would only make me want to bitch about him behind his back.”

(“ _Do you really need to go out with your friends tonight, baby? We could stay in and have a lot more fun just the two of us …_ ”)

Jessica sucks in a breath so hard it startles Harley, who narrows her eyes and leans back. Jessi bites hard on her tongue to bring herself back and runs a hand up and down her arm, trying to rub away the sudden rise of goosebumps. “You should definitely talk to him, and pay attention to what he says. Maybe he really just doesn’t know, and he’ll be horrified and want to make it up to you. But.” This time it’s her mother’s voice whispering in her memories, the tone dismissive and accusatory all at once. “Remember that ‘I’m sorry’ is a complete sentence. If anything else comes after that — anything that’s not how he’s going to do better — then he doesn’t mean it.”

That makes Harley pause, and she gives Jessica a long sideways look as her fingers twist in the fabric of her pants. “But maybe he’ll just want to explain —”

“‘I’m sorry’ is a complete sentence,” Jessica says, repeating it slowly and with emphasis on every word. “There are no exceptions. If he tries to argue or tell you you’re wrong, it doesn’t matter even if it makes sense. Your feelings are your feelings. Nobody has the right to tell you they’re not, and you don’t have to be able to write an essay about it for you to be allowed to feel them.”

“Shit,” Harley mutters under her breath, and she’s gone even paler under the makeup.

Jessica sighs and stands up. The ants are back under her skin, and she needs to do something, anything, or she’ll vibrate apart right there on the sofa. “I’m going to make myself dinner,” she says lightly. “You can stay if you want.”

Harley startles. “No,” she says, jumping to her feet. “No, I’m — I’m gonna go.”

She doesn’t say anything else, and Jessica doesn’t push her. Jessi lets Harley flee for the door, waits while she shoves her feet into the ridiculous metal-studded boots and slams the door behind her, then goes to find Nicky.

He’s on the floor in a pile of stuffed animals, apparently organizing them into ranks for another battle. “Hi Mama,” Nicky says, smiling up at her. “Mama’s friend go home?”

“Mama’s friend went home,” Jessica confirms, and she lowers herself into a crouch. “You want to help me make dinner?” Mrs. Carlisle will have fed Nicky earlier, but he likes to help Jessica cook even if he doesn’t eat it.

“Yeah!” Nicky grins and scrambles to his feet, and Jessica holds out her hand.

 

Two days later the front buzzer startles Jessica out of her studying, her phone vibrating as it sits balanced across the crease of her open textbook. She hits the answer button, then stares at it as Harley’s voice, crackly from the intercom, makes it through the speaker. “It’s me.” Jessica waits for anything else, but nothing follows except the tinny sound of traffic in the background.

Jessica tilts her head back and sends a silent plea to the ceiling, but hits the button to open the door. “Nicky, Harley’s here again,” she calls, and he looks up from his game with interest. “She might not want to talk very much, okay, so let Mama say hi first.”

“Okay,” he says, and gleefully crashes a stuffed tyrannosaurus into his carefully-designed train complex.

Harley’s in the hall when Jessica opens the door, makeup smeared below her reddened eyes, a battered rucksack over one shoulder. “Hey,” she says, not meeting Jessi’s eyes. “He said — you know what, it doesn’t matter. You were right, and it’s done. And you were right about the other thing, I don’t have any friends and all his bandmates want to fuck me and —”

Jessica steps back and waves a hand. “Come on in,” she says. “I’ll make you something to eat.”

Nicky waves from his spot on the floor. “Want to play trains?” he asks hopefully. “You can be the dinosaur.” He mimes the T-rex devouring one of the train cars as a helpful demonstration, adding in the screams of the people inside.

Harley lets out an odd, choked sound, and she digs the heel of one hand into her eye socket before twisting her fingers up into her hair. “Yeah, sure,” she says, dropping her bag. “Why not.”

Jessica watches for a moment just to be sure, but Harley plops herself down and takes the dinosaur without comment, and Nicky beams at her and starts rebuilding the train. When he catches Jessica’s eye he puts a finger over his lips, miming his promise not to talk too much, then goes back to the game.

Jessica shakes her head, a baffled smile touching her lips, but there have been stranger happenstances in the universe, probably. She passes by them into the kitchen to put some water on to boil just as Nicky makes Harley laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> 4 other people have written fic for this prompt since I started, and I almost didn't finish because how much more could there be to say -- but in the end, I'm glad I did. 
> 
> Merry Yuletide to all, and remember, we are worth more than anyone who says we're not.


End file.
